


Wishes

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 13:43:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10765422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Sam does love the Elves, and they’re good to him in return.





	Wishes

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For this week’s [silmread](http://silmread.tumblr.com/post/159908531685/23-the-ring-goes-south). (Winter in Rivendell being in The Fellowship of the Ring 2.3)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Rivendell is awe-inspiring at every given moment—Sam walks about it in a dream-like daze, peering here and there and trying to commit every last detail to memory. Wherever he goes, whether to the ends of the world with Mr. Frodo or back to his peaceful Shire, Sam wants to remember the lilting songs ever-present in the gardens, the warm smell of fresh but foreign food, even the crispness of the air. He wants to be able to close his eyes and still picture the grand, sweeping architecture, carved like living trees, arched high and glittering in the white powder of new snow. It was beautiful when they first arrived, still clear and green, and it’s beautiful now, blanketed in the beginnings of winter. Sam marvels most at the flowers, still lush and vibrant, more brilliant than ever as they poke through the frost. He could spend all his days like this and die happy.

He’s bent over, smelling the heady perfume of what looks like a pink daffodil—he couldn’t even dream of understanding all the magic flowers of the Elves—when a gentle voice speaks behind him, “Master Samwise?”

Straightening and turning, Sam’s blush grows darker when he sees who’s addressed him. He hardly feels right being called _master_ anything by any Elves, but Glorfindel, who Sam’s since learned to be a lord as great as he seems, is the one deserving titles. Sam stumbles over himself to duck into a bow, returning quickly, “My lord!” It’s a strange thing to say, but it’s how many seem to address Lord Elrond, and it fits here. The laughter that follows is chiming and pure.

Sam rises again when Glorfindel bids, “None of that, please. I came to you as a friend, and I would be pleased to stay as such. ...In fact, it is _your_ customs I wish to indulge in this morning. It is fast approaching your yuletide celebrations, is it not?”

Sam blinks and wracks his brain for the date, but he can’t remember the last time he looked at a calendar—time in Rivendell seems a funny thing, and he only plans to stay and go as Frodo must. The snow, at least, would indicate the season, and Sam nods. 

Glorfindel smiles wider at him—a radiance that makes Sam’s heart beat faster just for the pure _art_ of it—and then Glorfindel shifts his arms, and Sam becomes aware of the package in them. Glorfindel holds out a little box, wrapped neatly in white with a yellow ribbon embracing each side, culminating in a buoyant bow at the top. Sam can’t imagine why Glorfindel is showing it to him, until Glorfindel explains, “A gift for you, in the manner of your traditions, if you would accept. I have been recently learning a new skill from a group of passing dwarves, and this proved a good excuse for me to practice. I do hope you will not mind my lack of true talent at this point, but perhaps when you return, I will have mastered it and can do better. In the meantime, I am told you are quite taken with my people, and I would have you take this sorry attempt of mine in small thanks for your admiration.”

So stunned as he is, Sam doesn’t move until Glorfindel bends to tuck the box neatly into Sam’s hands. Then Sam’s forced to clutch onto it, and as Glorfindel withdraws, Sam splutters, “Thank you! I’m sure it’s quite marvelous! Oh, but I haven’t got anything to give you in return—and I’m hardly worthy of such a gift! Perhaps Mr. Frodo—”

“Gets enough from you already, I imagine,” Glorfindel laughs. For all his skill against the Black Riders, on his horse and with a sword, Glorfindel seems a creature of purity here. Sam feels wholly inadequate to accept anything from him. But Glorfindel insists, “Please, take it. I confess I muddled my first attempt, and it would do no good now to any of my people. Of yours, I deem you more worthy than you might think, Master Samwise. I suspect you will have earned a good deal more when your task is done, but this will have to do for now. It took me a fortnight to manage even that, and my Dwarven teachers are leaving soon; I will have to hone the skill on my own from now on, and it shall be much slower.”

Sam’s quite sure that Glorfindel is exceedingly skilled in everything. Even without knowing what the present is, he’s touched to be thought of at all. He’s touched Glorfindel can even remember his name, much less choose him for a gift. If not Frodo, even Merry might do better. But it’d be rude to protest any more, so he simply bows low again, holding the box tight to his chest and bursting, “Thank you, and all the seasons blessings to you!”

“You as well,” Glorfindel returns with a dip of his head. “And do not feel obligated to keep it if you do not like it; I will not be offended.”

Sam’s about to splutter that he would never dream of discarding a gift from any elf, much less the great lord who saved his master, but Glorfindel is already turning. Sam follows his gaze to see one of Elrond’s attendants hurrying across the courtyard, dark-haired and high collared, sterner looking than Glorfindel. But Glorfindel nods his parting suddenly and turns to follow the other elf, calling, “Good day, Master Samwise!”

“Good day and good year to you!” Sam calls after. He waits a moment longer, once he’s been left alone, just taking it in, trembling slightly on the spot, and not at all from the cold.

Then he all but bolts back to his room. He shuts the door firmly behind himself, hops up onto his bed, and begins to unwrap his gift with great care—he doesn’t want to rip the bow or paper in the slightest. He has a feeling he’ll have to leave this gift behind, but if he ever comes back this way again, he’d very much like to take it home.

In the box is a folded bit of woven wool, which tells Sam that the skill Glorfindel was speaking of must have been knitting. The item he extracts is a strange one, and it takes Sam a second to realize what he’s holding: a pair of cheerily coloured socks. He remembers hearing of them from Mr. Bilbo, though Sam’s never warn a thing on his feet himself. From another hobbit, he might scoff at such a gift and turn it away.

But from Glorfindel, he pulls them happily onto his feet, wriggles his toes in the perfect fit, and marvels at the softness. Glorfindel downplayed his own talent considerably; they stay nicely on, wondrously comfortable and pleasantly warm. He’d never paid much mind to the winter chill in his feet before, having always just taken that for part of life, but now this seems utterly brilliant—he’s never been so cozy.

He stares at them for a good while, just basking in the delight of being thought of. Then he carefully tucks the wrapping away and heads to go hug Mr. Frodo and thank him for his part in this: bringing Sam to see the glory of the elves.


End file.
